


Before These Walls Were Blue

by Catznetsov



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Body Hair, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magical Realism, Mpreg, St. Louis Blues, Tarasenko is a fine Siberian man who cannot grow a beard and Appreciates O’Reilly’s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2020-06-27 08:46:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19787380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catznetsov/pseuds/Catznetsov
Summary: Bettman issued a note from his doctor, who found that curses did not exist, and if they did, NHL players were big boys who could suck it up and skate it off, after a tasteful period of paternity leave if they really had to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for the sinbin prompt: 
> 
> "The first thing Bettman did once becoming commissioner was curse the Conn Smythe trophy. Because he's a dick. Now whoever wins it must have a baby."
> 
> -thanks to Aether and immoveableobject for the title and encouragement  
> -My characterization of Gary Bettman may be off. I have never heard him speak, what with the booing  
> -Gretzky and Roy fucked in this fic. You don't need to know that, I just want you to

May 29, 1993 would go down in history as the first time Gary Bettman tried to do anything helpful. It would not be remembered as a time he succeeded.Instead, he had held up the Conn Smythe trophy and made a speech, including in his remarks a short blessing prepared by the League’s warlock department. It was hard to say afterwards what did it, but the grinding repetition of the words “productivity”, “next generation optimization” and “scoring” in the surrounding speech may have reached an incantation-like pitch that threw the basic blessing several degrees sideways.

In February, the League had welcomed little Félicité Roy, already sporting a head of what everybody but the Kings management agreed to be suspiciously lush, wavy hair. Bettman issued a note from his doctor, who found that curses did not exist, and if they did, NHL players were big boys who could suck it up and skate it off, after a tasteful period of paternity leave if they really had to. Roy, more magnificently huge even than usual, had. 

And things settled out. Every NHLer loves a goalie, and most love babies, so the revolutionary combination had gone over pretty okay with everybody. It set up the Conn Smythe Curse to be seen as, at worst, a nuisance. It was inconvenient to last year’s champions to lose out on a top player for the first half of each new season, but none of the rest of the owners or Players’ Association would be interested in supporting their motion to have the trophy spiritually cleansed, and hey, free baby.

Some NHLers love babies more than most, and everyone had known Vladi was a champ in that department. If he’d ever hoped for the MVP trophy before he’s never mentioned it, and the playoffs never seemed real until one night in April in a country bar in Michigan when Colton had been gazing off for the last fifteen minutes, maybe at the framed photos and jerseys on the wall, and then he smacked one of his massive mitts down on the table and partly on Ryan’s hand.

“Dude,” he’d said, and Ryan had said, “Ow, bud,” gently.

“Sorry. Dude, though. Don’t you think, if we make it in…Vladi’s going to light things _up_.”

“Vlad already lights it up,” Ryan had said, because everybody knew that. It was certainly true on their game sheet, and Vladi could light up a room just by walking into it. And, oh, that’s what Colton had been looking at, Ryan sees when somebody moves, Vladi tucked under the framed championship pennants, in a pool of warm light from one of the little lamps. He doesn’t have Colton’s angle to keep watch on all their teammates’ from above. Vlad’s nodding to one of Jay’s rambles but just snuck a peek at his phone and started typing. The only thing he seems to use it for is watching Insta stories of his Russian buddies’ MVP baby in DC.

“Sure. Don’t you think, if we make the finals though….”

“Oh. He’s our guy,” Ryan said.

“He’s our MVP,” Colton had said. And then, “Maybe,” fastidiously. “Right?”

“Right,” Ryan said.

“He’d love that. Just think about it,” Colton said, and sank down on the bar with his chin in his hands and a happy sigh, thinking of sweetly chubby-cheeked babies.

Ryan, regrettably, had thought about it too, because it was true. Tee would be a better scorer after half a season off than most people ever were, and he would be prouder than any individual trophy to have a kid. 

They’d _all_ thought about it, Colton shooting significant looks over Vladi’s head at everybody as they ticked off game after game, rising through the rounds, and Vlad looking better and better every night. He smashes through every line of defense, through goalies, crashes into Ryan’s side as the goal light shines like it’s all the easiest thing in the world.

They’re in it to win it already, but some nights they needed something to rally around. They lose one night, and Ryan caught one of Colton’s looks and got up out of his stall, circling and chatting with the guys, reminding them what they each did right and how great this team can be with Vladi bolstering them. They’re hockey guys, humble, but everybody loves cheering for talent like that in their corner. Maybe they were all shining a little brighter for the promise of a fluffy blonde baby Tee. 

Ryan likes to think he’s pretty good regardless, but he might have been better for that, too. Maybe he roofed it.

Everything is screaming, light and joy and the boys all around. Ryan feels like the whole arena all at once, head echoing, and then there’s grounding weight, familiar, slamming into his side. He wraps an arm around his shoulders and the puff of Vladi’s hair is there to turn his cheek into, muffling even a fraction of the noise and the bright lights that have Ryan tearing up all on their own. Vladi’s burbling something into Ryan’s beard, tiny exclamations in a half-language probably nobody speaks but Ryan thinks, in that moment, it’s okay. You don’t have to understand all the time.

Someone tests the PA system. “The Booooon Smythe Trophy is awarded…” Bettman says, or something like it. “To the booost valuable player.…”

Ryan scrubs his cheek against Vladi’s hair one last time to dry his eyes, taking advantage of the pauses, and gives him a little encouraging squeeze. Vladi babbles something else, and then when Ryan leans in to listen closer it resolves to “Go, go go,” just as Gary Bettman says, “Boooo’Reilly, get on up here.”

“Wait,” Ryan says. 

“No, go go,” Vladi says, slipping out from under his arm and ceremoniously shoving him toward the commissioner. The last things Ryan sees before the shining trophy fills his vision are Vladi’s eyes, hugely blue and deliriously happy, hands clasped eagerly in front of him, and Colton over his shoulder, mouthing, _“oops.”_

Bettman hands him the trophy; Ryan shakes his hand. “Conbootulations,” Bettman tells him. The weight of the trophy settles in the cradle of his arm and he shifts it automatically to rest on his hip. 


	2. Chapter 2

“You lit it up too,” Colton says later on their makeshift dance floor, shimmying up beside Ryan.

“I’m fine,” Ryan says. Eyes half-closed against the colored lights someone rigged up, the music makes it true.

“No, you were so much better,” Colton promises him. “Than fine I mean, not better than…” and even drunk he’s got great aim, looking straight to where Vladi’s snuggled on one of the suite’s couches, holding down the fort. Through the thicket of their teammates’ abandoned beer bottles on the coffee table, a stray leaf of the Conn Smythe shines. 

Colton wraps gentle gorilla arms around Ryan and starts swaying him offbeat.

“No, I meant—I’m fine,” Ryan says. “Please don’t reassure me.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, you got this,” Colton mumbles, setting his improbably sharp jaw into Ryan’s shoulder. “You were good, dude. You’re gonna be a good dad. Oh, oh gosh, I’m keeping you from—“ when Ryan must make some kind of a sound. 

“You’re fine,” Ryan says. Colton can’t be holding his ribs too tight, but he must be, because it comes out pinched. 

Colton sways him once, twice, and three times side to side in a soothing sort of waltz, then sets him back on his feet with all the care of the utterly blitzed. Ryan can feel his hands hover over Ryan’s ribs, easy friendship, and thinks about doing his best at breathing to fill them. It must not be Colton’s fault after all. “Thanks buddy,” he says. “Thank you. Yeah, I should start, uh, choosing.” 

At the end of the night the Conn Smythe is going to weigh who Ryan spent the most meaningful time with, and Ryan would at least like it not to be whoever he trips over on the way to bed, or a moose like Colton. His hips aren’t built for that.

“Oh, yeah! Oh, this is so exciting. You should think about it,” Colton says, which may be true, but Ryan made that mistake last time. 

“For sure. Hey bud, can you get me a beer?”

“Sure,” Colton says, but he doesn’t withdraw his supportive arm quite yet. “You’ll be alright?”

“Oh yeah. I’ll go sit with Vlad,” Ryan says. Colton must think Vladi’s an acceptably sturdy friend, because he leaves Ryan with a squeeze. 

Getting closer won’t make any difference to the curse now. Ryan reminds himself of that all the way across the darkened suite, wending his way between teammates, until his leg bumps the table a little sooner than he expected, and the trophy is right there under his hand to steady himself on.

Conventional wisdom holds that curses are heavy. In fact, one of the warning signs that an everyday object, or major professional sporting trophy, might be carrying a curse is that it will seem unusually light, since curses make themselves much easier to pick up than to put down again. Ryan can’t think how much this amount of walnut and chrome detailing ought to weigh, but it’s probably less than a new baby will. Ryan was big when he was born.

Vladi tips him a little smile in the low light, and pats the cushion beside him. Ryan, less steady than he thought, sits. He gets a gentle elbow to his side as Vladi tucks himself in, even though he doesn’t have to. 

Ryan thinks about lifting that arm for him, but Tee’s already settled, little chin hooked on Ryan’s shoulder to inspect the trophy now square in front of Ryan. Vladi chirrups something to himself, and reaches out with one finger to poke the main maple leaf.

“Congratulations,” he says, low and clear. 

Ryan can’t shift without breathing his hair. Rogue tufts will already be sticking to his beard by static electricity. The first word Ryan always thinks looking at it is baby-fine, and Ryan has been thinking about a baby with that hair for weeks now, thought about it for months before that, how it shines, how it feels against his skin when his neck and his cheek are bare.

“Thanks, I guess,” he says, and feels as Vladi, always slow, pauses. Out in the crowd of dancers Joel has snagged Colton to dance on like his personal pole, while Alex is leading somebody in a surprisingly decent waltz. No one will notice where Ryan’s gone a while longer.

“You don’t not want baby, though,” Vladi says after a minute, almost asking. He sounds simply confused.

Ryan should be thinking now, about who he wants to spend the night with. But he’s thought plenty already, has been thinking about all this long enough, and what’s worse, he’s wanted it longer. In the low light that might as well be dark and booming music that might as well be quiet, everything seems to floats around their little nest and Ryan might too without the weight of Vladi’s hands to ground him. He can admit he’d wanted in some visceral grasping way a chance to hold Vladi’s baby, and to see the kid in Vlad’s massive arms, and to know the molten look Vlad would give her was at least in some way because of them, the team, him. Vladi shouldn’t have to sigh over anyone else’s kid.

“Nah,” Ryan says, and takes pity with the double negatives. “I want it.” 

Maybe he’s imagining how Vladi’s cheek rests easier against his after that. He can’t have imagined the way Vladi softens when Ryan finally shifts his shoulder out from under him to turn, lifting a hand to rest on the reassuring breadth of his cheek, and kisses him. 

Vlad knocks him back into the cushions, chasing him with his mouth. His arm is already around Ryan’s side to pillow the landing, and Ryan lets himself rock back, lets his lips part under the weight of Vladi surging against him, but then just as quick Vladi slows. 

He finishes the kiss the same way he invites Ryan over to his place for dinner after practice, the way he holds out a bottle of beer at one of Pietro’s parties, when he only grabbed two from the cooler just for them, same way he offers everything, like he wants you to know he’s there but never wants to push. Ryan can feel the petal peak of his lower lip hovering just above his own, sticky with a slick of champagne. When he twists the hand on Vladi’s cheek back into his curls to pull them together the strawberry sweetness rubs off on his mouth, just like he’s always imagined it might. 

“Hey,” he says when they part for breath, pulling back so he can check Vladi’s expression, but Vladi follows so their faces are still pressed together from forehead to the point of Vladi’s nose. Most of everything he can see is blue, broken by the slow sweep of Vladi’s eyelashes. Ryan bumps their noses together, rubs his thumb over Vladi’s jaw, just to see them flutter and then fall. Vladi gives up a little sigh and Ryan kisses him again before he says, “Music’s pretty loud.”

Vladi laughs, a sound that’s almost silent, high and sweet when it comes out, but catches lower in his chest so Ryan can feel the rumble of it pressed close like this. “You want get out of here?” he says, carefully mimicking the line. Ryan can’t imagine he’s ever used it earnestly at bars before, and then he can, and then he stops himself. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I want to.” 


	3. Chapter 3

December 11, 2018 wouldn’t go down in history as anything but a relief. The team might keep shooting each other in the foot, or in Vladi’s case the hand, but Schwartzy had finally escaped the cast and accepted an apology fist bump with only a little exaggerated hesitation. 

He turned it into a secret handshake complete with engine revving and explosion sound effects that Ryan guessed might represent a tank. Vladi stood through it all with his fist stock-still in the air, and blinked at the room one, two, and three times before his solemn face blossomed into a smile. 

Schwartzy tripped over a protest, but too late, as Vladi’s hand had darted out, under his arm, locking under the strong joint of his shoulder. The whole room rustled with slow laughter as Schwartzy squeaked and squirmed and Vladi lifted him inevitably into the air.

“Alright, alright, Vlad, put the little man down,” Alex had finally said. “Just think how would you like it,” and Vladi’s mouth quirked like he really was thinking about it before he shrugged and set Jaden gently back on his feet.

“It’s not even arm day,” Schwartzy said bitterly, brushing his sweatshirt back into place.

“Every day can be arm day, if you believe in yourself,” Vladi had said, and strolled away toward the trainers’ room. Ryan had turned back to his own pads, feeling the corners of his mouth tugging into too much of a smile and trying to tuck them back into something appropriate for the stupid little moment. 

It didn’t matter, not when no one but Colton has a hope of moving Vladi and Colton’s shown them all the bruises to assure them they don’t want to try. Ryan might have daydreamed about gathering him in against his chest, pulling him into bed, but there was no point in really thinking about it when Vladi was hardly about to let him. 

Slipping out and down the hallway away from the rooms the boys have flung open to party, Vladi leads him with one hand locked around Ryan’s wrist, palm hot over Ryan’s sensitive skin as if everything he’s feeling has been pinned to that one point. If Ryan thinks about it for more than a moment he can’t remember why he’s acting casual, as if the boys are sober enough to notice or, for that matter, drunk enough to be surprised if they did. Everyone knows he’s going to spend the night with someone. Everyone’s going to know who in a few months when Ryan hands Vladi his baby, but he doesn’t want to think about it now. Vladi’s acting just as careful. 

At least Ryan hopes he’s acting. 

Vladi squeezes his wrist as they pause in front of a door, fumbling in his pocket. His grip softens, then slips down to Ryan’s hand, palm to palm and fingers tangling. The door clicks open and Ryan presses against his back, tumbling them both through. 

It’s not Ryan’s room, but it doesn’t look like anyone else’s. The bedsheets are so neat he’d think Vladi’s let them into an unused room, if he didn’t know Vladi. Vlad’s looking all of a sudden shifty, but when Ryan raises an eyebrow Vladi smiles for him and actually shifts, almost imperceptibly. When Ryan looks down a pair of abandoned boxers are just sliding under the bed as Vladi tries to toe them out of sight. On the way back up his eyes get caught on all of Vladi’s chest, so it takes a while.

“Nice place,” he starts to tease, but Vladi’s already set hands on his hips, tugging Ryan back in flush against him. “You’re ridiculous,” Ryan mumbles, and Vladi hums, their noses bumping together a few times before Ryan tilts his head right and finds Vladi’s parted lips ready waiting for him. He’s still addictively, impractically soft, and by now Ryan must have licked all the champagne off but it’s like theglow of it is still all over him, making Ryan light-headed.

Vlad’s shirts always look like there must be duct tape holding the seams together somewhere. Outside the showers Ryan’s never seen him in less than a t-shirt, but when Ryan reaches for his collar Vladi’s hands cover his and then slip under, making quick work of the buttons. The fabric falls to each side and Ryan lets his fingers follow, ducking for another kiss before he’ll be ready to look. Vladi meets him eagerly but a little off center, pressing warm against Ryan’s mouth and several times at the corner before he strays to Ryan’s cheek, and Ryan realizes Vladi’s rubbing against Ryan’s beard. 

He can’t think about that for more than a hot intake of breath when Vladi’s chest and belly is right there against his hands, heavy waves of his abdominals and the thick slash of his obliques, and nothing but the shirt to stop Ryan from palming as much as he wants. He tries to touch politely, until Vladi shivers at the light brush of a finger and then giggles against Ryan’s jaw, like it must tickle. Ryan firms his hands over Vladi’s flanks in apology, fingertips finding the thick sweep of his spine as Vladi sighs, then pulls away far enough to tug his shirt off entirely. 

Ryan can’t imagine the last time he’s seen so much gold. Vladi only gives him a moment before he’s muscling back in, hands finding Ryan’s shoulders and then his own collar this time. Ryan assumes Vladi’s back for another little kiss but instead Vladi crowds him until the backs of his knees knock against the bed, cradling Ryan’s neck as he has to let himself half-fall backwards. Vladi follows, cautious not to let his whole weight land on Ryan, so Ryan has to catch at Vladi’s shoulders now blocking out the light above him and tug to tell him he wants more. Apparently Vladi can’t, or won’t, resist when Ryan arches his neck in invitation, burying his face against Ryan’s jaw for more kisses and muffled mumbles. 

Every time they shift together his bare chest and the rise and fall of his abdominals rub against Ryan through his own shirt. He’d only changed back into a tee in the locker room, wound too tight to wrangle dress shirt buttons, and now he’s grateful so when he cranes his neck again Vlad can catch his neckline, pulling at it to bare Ryan’s collarbones to cold air and then to Vladi’s mouth. 

Ryan stretches to tug the t-shirt all the way off, tossing it for Vladi to find later and falling back into the pillows. This time instead of following Vladi holds himself in a pushup for an unfairly long time to look Ryan all over, murmuring to himself in some half-language the way he does when he’s deep in focus. Ryan’s gotten worse reactions to just how much and just how ginger his hair gets over his pecs, but glancing down and letting his eyes slide back up to the peaks of Vladi’s, gilded with at most a fine fuzz, it strikes sparks in his stomach that he hopes Vladi is feeling too.

When Ryan can’t resist reaching up, Vladi lets him gather all the soft tension of him in against Ryan’s chest, bumpingtheir noses together. Ryan kisses him until Vladi slides down to explore his neck and chest, hands gripping the expanse of Vladi’s back bared in this position and listening to what sounds like an apology for not cleaning the room; Vladi would have, but he thought Ryan was going to pick Petro.

They haven’t been back to the hotel since the morning, before the game, the win, the ceremony, so there’s a whole lot wrong with that.

“Vlad,” he says, tuning back in, “Did you think I was going to win?”

Vladi pauses, then wiggles so they can see each other properly. “You’re our guy,” he says.

“That’s…no,” Ryan says. “You’re saying that like it’s obvious.”

“Yes,” Vladi says, solemn, and circles his fingers over Ryan’s chest hair in a way he must know tickles.

“It wasn’t supposed to be. Look at what you did, the first two rounds. Everybody knew it was going to be you,” Ryan says.

Vladi thinks about it. “Everybody, maybe, but writers agree with me,” he says, then, “Really?”

“Yes,” Ryan says, although he’s not sure anymore. He covers Vladi’s hand with his to stop the tickling, both their hands resting together hot against the cool air on his bare chest.

“You’re saying that like obvious,” Vladi mimics. “I don’t think so. I think I’m right.” His stubborn chin is set, the corners of his mouth soft the way that means he would be smiling if he were Canadian, and Ryan has to stare up at him in wonder.

“Do you just want me to say you’re smarter at hockey than me?” he says, and Vladi glows for him. “I didn’t even say it,” Ryan starts, but gives up. “ _You_ like praise. Really?” 

Vladi ignores him, humming deep in his throat and tipping in to press their lips together. Ryan licks into his mouth, daring to leave Vladi’s hand alone on his chest to reach up and push his own fingers back into Vladi’s hair, cradling the nape of his neck and the curve of his skull. Vladi purrs when Ryan touches there, sighs when Ryan sucks his lower lip and then tries teeth. He responds to everything with the smallest sounds, all drowned out when his hand Ryan had left unsupervised sneaks down to Ryan’s nipple and Ryan moans. 

The satisfaction of his new toy almost distracts Vladi, his mouth falling open for a moment as if in awe and his fingers twitching in for another pinch before he stops himself and glances to Ryan. “Yeah, you’re good,” Ryan says, palming the back of his head again to reassure at least one of them. “You’re good,” as Vladi turns to kiss his jaw, nosing into his beard as he circles the point of Ryan’s nipple with his strong, soft hands. 

“Fuck,” Ryan says, and then when Vladi mouths enthusiastically at his throat as if he liked the feeling of Ryan’s voice, “Um. Would you like to?”

Vladi says, “What?” so Ryan must have sold out clarity for his own comfort there. His cheeks burn but not harshly, not when Vladi’s still easy over him. Vladi doesn’t relax often, but he trusts against all evidence that Ryan will find a way to explain himself. Ryan has to squeeze him, arms full around his waist as Vladi gives in and lets his full weight fall on Ryan at last. He rests his chin on Ryan’s chest, breath warm on Ryan’s skin and everywhere they’re touching now, tips his head as if to steal a quick brush of his cheek against Ryan’s short curls before turning those bright eyes back up at Ryan.

“I meant, like, what do you want to do now?” Ryan says. It’s not what he had said, more direct, or less so, because the first way suggested what Ryan would like him to want. 

Vladi crinkles his nose at him. “Make baby Cup-winner?” he says, and Ryan squeezes him again until he giggles, eyes crinkling shut, then wide in champagne-bright sincerity. He taps a finger on the arch of Ryan’s collarbone. “Do that, everyone says we have to make you the most happy. So, what do you want?”

In this moment, sailing unhurried through midnight toward the morning after the Stanley Cup Final, all Ryan really wants is not to have to explain that if what the Conn Smythe wants to see is a passionate connection, he’s getting pregnant as they speak. 

Maybe he is already, maybe all it took was Vladi leaning into him, back at the party, Ryan thinking and the damn trophy witnessing how good a partner and a parent Vladi could be. Maybe the flutter in Ryan’s stomach is just the magic making room to carry Vladi’s child. 

Some of it must be exhaustion, too, muscle that’s been tensed too long giving it up in relief. He pins those thoughts down, doesn’t think about what might be the third part of it. He wants to hold onto the glow as long as it lasts, and if they’re too tired to do much, and if they don’t really need to do more for the magic, then there’s no reason to tell himself he can’t.

“Can you just…kiss me again,” he says. “And take your pants off.”

Vladi tips his chin side to side, as if to point out his significant arms. He’s letting his weight rest on Ryan now, but he’d have to push up and hold himself on one hand just to slip the other between them and reach the button.

“You _could,_ don’t even start,” Ryan tells him, and his hands are still on Vladi’s back, so he can’t resist tickling, before he slides them down toward the waistband of Vladi’s suit pants to help. Vladi proves he needs both hands by surging back up onto his forearms and framing Ryan’s face with them, this time palming Ryan’s cheek then pressing under his jaw to guide him for another kiss. 

Ryan remembers how Vladi had almost crushed him against the couch earlier, just for a second showing his full strength. This time his soft hands moderate the power Ryan can feel in his arms around him, in Vladi’s chest heavy hot and close over him. There’s just space enough now to slip his hands around Vladi’s waist and between them, pushing at the button and tugging his fly down.

Vladi grabs him, muscling Ryan’s head back to bare as much of his throat as he apparently wants as Ryan works his hand inside Vladi’s briefs. He’s not fully hard yet, letting Ryan palm the silky soft weight of him as Vladi lays open-mouthed kisses up the exposed underside of Ryan’s jaw. Ryan gasps. His shoulders are pinned to the mattress but he arches as much as he can, rubs against Vladi’s chest and feels Vladi rumble satisfaction. He settles his weight more securely, surrounding Ryan, nuzzling until he finds Ryan’s mouth, open for him.

When Ryan remembers himself he pokes at Vladi’s hip, until he gets the message and shifts enough to allow Ryan to shove his briefs down. Vladi’s dick fills his hand as well as Ryan has imagined. The kiss reaches a natural lull as both of them have to breathe and Ryan bumps his nose politely against Vladi’s, nudging for enough space to see. 

Vladi is golden all the way down, against Ryan’s paler fingers, dick curving back against his stomach and the peachy head just peeking out from his foreskin now. Ryan circles it with his thumb, curious, and Vladi gives him the smallest gasp that Ryan thinks, with a last breath of tipsy clarity, he is about to get utterly drunk on. Before he has the chance to repeat it Vladi is moving over him again, a ripple of muscle like Ryan’s own ocean to get lost in until Vladi settles kneeling astride his hips, weight on one arm, hand fisting in Ryan’s hair, hot and tight at the nape of his neck, the other shoving between them to wrap around Ryan’s fingers on him.

Vladi squeezes Ryan's hand, using it to knead himself almost idly, flushed and growing hard against Ryan’s palm. Then he draws Ryan’s hand away, leading it back to Ryan’s own jeans. He presses Ryan’s knuckles to his fly, rubbing, makes Ryan groan, guides Ryan’s fingers to his waistband and lets go as if encouraging them to slip under. Ryan has forgotten to think about how he’s aching, but it hits him with the thought that Vladi wants to watch him touch himself. 

He jerks at the button, tugs at his fly, shoves his jeans open as far as he can to work his boxers down. Vladi is running one finger up and down over the curls around Ryan's belly button, and seems uninterested in lifting his weight when Ryan rolls his hips, so Ryan’s jeans and twisted underwear will have to stay tight, pressing against his balls and the sensitive insides of his thighs, which he can’t reach to touch. Vladi purrs when Ryan wraps a hand around himself and strokes up. He finishes his traverse of Ryan’s treasure trail and strokes up Ryan’s chest as Ryan finds a rough rhythm. 

Usually he likes to start slow, draw his nails up his inner thighs or press them against the delicate skin over his balls, but Vladi’s thighs are keeping him trapped, and that’s doing more. Instead on the next stroke he draws his hand all the way up over the head, closes his eyes in anticipation, catches under the delicate ridge with the edge of a nail. 

Champagne bubbles are welling up in his stomach, sparkling across his skin where Vladi touches him. Ryan reaches for him with his free hand and Vladi captures it, spreading his fingers and threading them together when Ryan follows him. 

He gives Ryan a reassuring squeeze, as if they’ve just tangled their hands together for a moment in the low-lit hallway, the way he did just hours earlier before going out for the third, and a kiss, which feels entirely new. Then he tugs on Ryan’s hand until they both find the swell of Ryan’s chest, hot and straining with his breath. Vladi presses Ryan’s hand to knead into his chest, circles with his own thumb and finds Ryan’s nipple to pinch before pulling back and patting Ryan’s hand to tell him to copy what Vladi just showed him. 

This whole year, Vladi’s never given him a direct order, and Ryan’s followed them all. He touches where Vladi tells him, moves when Vladi’s hips move over him, lets his mouth fall open when Vladi cards through his hair and scrapes his short nails over the nape of his neck. Vladi, always a perfectionist, kisses him the way Ryan asked and holds him the way Ryan hoped until Ryan comes for him. He kisses Ryan through the shock of it, not quite gentle, and as he drifts down Ryan wonders if Vladi would like to bite at his throat instead. Maybe he should have asked Vladi for that, but it’s too late now, so that’s alright.

When the kiss ends he reaches out, and Vladi, who is too polite to smack his hands away, ignores them. He stays close over Ryan, holding himself on one arm and fingers in Ryan’s hair, and wraps the other hand around his own dick. Ryan can melt into the mattress under his weight and just watch Vladi stroke himself, tugging at his foreskin and pausing to knead at his balls, methodical except for the way his gaze drags over Ryan’s bare chest, belly, the short thick gingery hair showing between his thighs, and his softening dick. Vladi bites his own pink lower lip and comes across Ryan’s stomach, hot and obvious.

Vladi lets Ryan move him enough for another kiss. He wavers above him for the first time as Ryan licks into his mouth, apparently distracted getting his hand up to stroke over Ryan’s stomach, through Ryan’s curls and the mess they’ve made. 

When Ryan lets his head fall back on the pillow to look up at him Vladi’s mouth is still soft, the moue that means he would be smiling, but it’s getting tighter. Ryan can almost see the English starting to pile up behind his lips, probably wondering if he should get up and get something to clean them.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ryan says. He reaches up to touch his cheek and gets Vladi’s eyes on him again. “It’s not a big deal, okay? You’re good.”

Vladi blinks, and smiles at Ryan with his eyes, the warmest shade of blue, which doesn't make any sense until Ryan thinks about a campfire. “Okay,” he says.

“You’re good,” Ryan says, just because he can’t think of anything else. But it makes Vladi lean in to kiss him again, and keep kissing him, eventually shifting enough to be laying mostly beside him, until between one and the next he falls asleep.

Ryan smacks the switches on the wall, rotating through the overcomplicated hotel lighting until one of them turns the bedside lamp off. The room isn’t quite dark, the sounds of the city and the ongoing party filter faintly in, no song he can recognize but scattered notes that blur and become a new melody with the soothing hum of the AC. Vladi’s cheek is pillowed on his shoulder, his dandelion fluff of hair right there for Ryan to turn his face into, and the last thing that hits him before he falls asleep is the realization that the only light he’s seeing by is coming from right next to him, as Vladi starts to murmur in his sleep and quite plainly glows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a while.  
> Contains references to tipsy sex (a small amount of champagne).  
> Among the Blues’ many woes, Tarasenko shot a puck into Schwartz’s hand and broke it early in the season.


End file.
